Depending upon which weather service one chooses to believe, where I am right now it is either sunny and 65 degrees or cloudy and 49 degrees, or somewhere between the two extremes. Because the view outside my window does not include any hint of the sun other than the indication that it must have come up, as I can read the "49" on digital thermometer hanging downstairs on the patio without the use of a flashlight, and my room is very cool, I choose to place my faith in the report indicating it is cloudy and 49 degrees outside. I have my blinds and curtains open, but not my windows. I like it cool, but not freaking 49, plus I don't think the excess moisture from the fog is all that beneficial to my musical instruments. I'm between pink-with-black-polka-dots sheets, bundled in a fleecy pink and black blanket throw, and under my black-with-pink polka dots comforter. I'm downright cozy.
Forty-nine degrees seems pretty far from Arctic to most of you, but I'm feeling just a bit chilled even at this temperature that some would consider balmy. I suppose I could close my window coverings, but the foggy view of my backyard appears mildly picturesque through my window, almost as though it's a painting Van Gogh threw together quickly on what was not one of his better days. It's not "Starry Night," but still it's a Van Gogh (figuratively speaking), so I'll incorporate the view into today's decor.
After all the talk of the view from my window, I'm not actually looking in the direction of my window. Instead, I'm watching TV. "Dog, the Bounty Hunter" is on. I know the series was discontinued at some point. I don't know if it was picked up again and more episodes were made, or if i'm watching one of the dinosaur episodes. In this episode, the Chapmans are attempting to apprehend a very large Samoan woman (probably a redundancy) who has, like everyone the Chapmans pursue, gone on the lam and has failed to show for a court appearance. The Chapmans will catch her. They always do. They're more consistent at apprehending the bail-bustrs than was Dr. House at curing patients with almost-never-before-seen ailments, and he was a fictional character. Perhaps therein lies the key and the similarity: perhaps the Chapmans are all fictional characters, too. Nevertheless, I want to be Baby Lissa. I can truly see myself in Daisy Dukes and a bullet-proof vest, speaking in double negatives while carrying a child or two in one hand and a loaded firearm in the other. It's my alter ego. It was meant to be.
This weather brings out contemplative feelings in me. I'm not one for bucket lists, resolutions, or much anything of that nature, but I'll probably come up in the next few hours with a list of short- and long-term objectives. I'll share if it's sufficiently mildly rated, as in no more extreme than PG-13, yet also not so terribly boring so as to induce sleep in its readers.
Sayonara por oy.
Forty-nine degrees seems pretty far from Arctic to most of you, but I'm feeling just a bit chilled even at this temperature that some would consider balmy. I suppose I could close my window coverings, but the foggy view of my backyard appears mildly picturesque through my window, almost as though it's a painting Van Gogh threw together quickly on what was not one of his better days. It's not "Starry Night," but still it's a Van Gogh (figuratively speaking), so I'll incorporate the view into today's decor.
After all the talk of the view from my window, I'm not actually looking in the direction of my window. Instead, I'm watching TV. "Dog, the Bounty Hunter" is on. I know the series was discontinued at some point. I don't know if it was picked up again and more episodes were made, or if i'm watching one of the dinosaur episodes. In this episode, the Chapmans are attempting to apprehend a very large Samoan woman (probably a redundancy) who has, like everyone the Chapmans pursue, gone on the lam and has failed to show for a court appearance. The Chapmans will catch her. They always do. They're more consistent at apprehending the bail-bustrs than was Dr. House at curing patients with almost-never-before-seen ailments, and he was a fictional character. Perhaps therein lies the key and the similarity: perhaps the Chapmans are all fictional characters, too. Nevertheless, I want to be Baby Lissa. I can truly see myself in Daisy Dukes and a bullet-proof vest, speaking in double negatives while carrying a child or two in one hand and a loaded firearm in the other. It's my alter ego. It was meant to be.
This weather brings out contemplative feelings in me. I'm not one for bucket lists, resolutions, or much anything of that nature, but I'll probably come up in the next few hours with a list of short- and long-term objectives. I'll share if it's sufficiently mildly rated, as in no more extreme than PG-13, yet also not so terribly boring so as to induce sleep in its readers.
Sayonara por oy.
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